Robert Wilson - The Hidden Assassins

The pool had been built at the bottom of the garden, surrounded by a dense growth of oleander, bougainvillea and jasmine. His wife had insisted it be put down there because Lucrecio had wanted a 20-metre monster. They'd dynamited three hundred tons of rock out of the mountainside so that he could swim his daily kilometre in fifty lengths, rather than having the awful bore of turning just as he'd got into his stride. He reached the poolside and flung his towel on a lounger and let his bathrobe fall on top. He stepped out of his sandals and walked to the end of the pool. He fitted his goggles over his face and nestled the rubber into his eye sockets.

He raised his arms and through the rose-tinted lenses of the goggles he saw something that looked like a postcard on the end of the diving board. He dropped his arms just as he felt two colossal thuds in his back, like sledgehammer blows but more penetrating. The third blow was to the neck and came down on him with the full weight of a cleaver. His legs would not support him and he collapsed messily into the water. The dense growth behind him rearranged itself. There was the sound of a small scooter starting up. The splendid day continued. The ice blue water in the swimming pool clouded red around the body. A speedboat nosed out into the blue morning, pursued by its white frothy wake. The Holiday Inn on Plaza Carlos Triana Bertran in Madrid was not one of Cesar Benito's favourite hotels, but it had some advantages. It was close to the conference centre where he'd given a speech to Spain's leading constructors the night before. It was also near the Bernabeu Stadium and even when Real Madrid weren't playing he enjoyed being close to the beating heart of Spanish football. The hotel had a third advantage on this Saturday, which was that it was only twenty minutes to the airport and he had a flight to catch to Lisbon at 11 a.m. He'd asked for breakfast to be served in his suite as he hated looking at other people, who were not his family, early in the morning. The room service boy had just wheeled in the trolley and Benito was flicking through Saturday's ABC and chewing on a croissant when there was another knock at the door. It was so soon after the room service boy had left that he assumed it was him coming back for some reason. He didn't look through the spy hole. He wouldn't have seen anybody if he had.

He opened the door on to an empty corridor. His head was just coming forward to look out when the edge of a hand swung into him with rapid and lethal force, chopping across his Adam's apple and windpipe and making a loud cracking noise. He fell backwards into the room, spluttering flakes of croissant over the front of his bathrobe. His heels worked furrows into the carpet as he tried to draw air into his lungs. The door closed. Benito's feet slowed after a minute and then stopped working. There was a gargling rattle from his collapsed throat and his hands lost all grip. He didn't feel the fingers searching for a neck pulse or the light touch of the card placed on his chest.

The door of the hotel room reopened and closed with a Do not disturb sign swinging on the handle. The air conditioning breathed easily in the hush of the empty corridor, while unclaimed newspapers hung in plastic bags from other, indifferent, doors. At 9.30 a.m. Falcon had taken a break from his interview with Agustin Cardenas and called Ramirez out to give him the news of the recording Cardenas had made, hoping it could be used to apply pressure on Angel Zarrias. Cardenas was taken back down to the cells while Falcon went to his office to call Elvira to get the Madrid police to pick up the recording from Cardenas's rented flat, while simultaneously arresting Cesar Benito in the Holiday Inn.

It was Ferrera, calling him from a cafe on the Avenida de San Lazaro, who told him to look at the latest news on Canal Sur. Falcon ran through the Jefatura and burst into the communications room just in time to see a shot of Marbella disappear from the television screen, to be replaced by the newsreader who repeated the breaking news item: Lucrecio Arenas had been found by his maid floating face down in his swimming pool at 9.05 that morning. He had been shot three times in the back.

His mobile vibrated and he took the call from Elvira.

'I've just seen it,' he said. 'Lucrecio Arenas in his pool.'

'They got Cesar Benito in his hotel in Madrid as well,' said Elvira. 'That's going to come through in the next few minutes.'

It took another five minutes for the Benito item to break. A TVE camera crew got to the Holiday Inn before Canal Sur reached Arenas's villa in Marbella. It took a further half an hour before their camera crew pushed a lens into the face of the maid, who'd only just recovered from the hysteria of finding her boss dead in the pool. The newsreaders jumped between the two dramas. Falcon called Ramirez out of the interview room to let him know, went back to his office and slumped in his chair, all the enthusiasm of the morning gone.

His first thoughts were that this was the end. It didn't matter what they found out now from Cardenas and Zarrias, it was all immaterial. He stared at his reflection in the dead, grey computer screen and it started him thinking in a slightly less linear way about what had happened. He made some uncomfortable connections, which made him furious and then another idea came to him, which frightened him into calming down. He got the communications room to send a patrol car to Alarcon's house in El Porvenir. He called Jesus Alarcon. His wife, Monica, answered the phone.

'You've heard the news,' he said.

'He can't speak to you now,' said Monica. 'He's too upset. You know Lucrecio was like a father to him.'

'First thing: none of you are to go outside,' said Falcon. 'Lock all the doors and windows and go upstairs. Don't answer the door. I'm sending a patrol car round there now.'

Silence from Monica.

'I'll tell you what it's about when I get there,' said Falcon. 'Did Jesus speak to Lucrecio Arenas yesterday?'

'Yes, they met.'

'I'm coming round now. Lock all the doors. Don't let anybody in.'

On the way to El Porvenir, Falcon called Elvira and asked for armed guards to protect Alarcon and his family. The request was granted immediately.

'There's more stuff coming out all the time,' said Elvira, 'but I can't talk about it on the phone. I'm coming in.'

'I'm on my way to see Alarcon,' said Falcon.

'Do we know where Alarcon was on the night of Tateb Hassani's murder?'

'He was at a wedding in Madrid.'

'So you think he's clean?'

'I know he's clean,' said Falcon. 'I've got a special insight.'

'Special insights, even your special insights, don't always look good in police reports,' said Elvira.

The street was empty of people and Falcon parked behind the patrol car, which was already outside the metal sliding gate of Alarcon's house. Monica buzzed him in. Falcon had a good look around before he went through the front door, which he closed and triple locked. He went to the back of the house and checked all the doors and windows.

'We're just being careful,' said Falcon. 'We don't know who we're dealing with yet and we're not sure whether Jesus is on their list. So we're putting you under armed guard until we know.'

'He's in the kitchen,' she said, looking sick with fear.

She went upstairs to sit with the children.

Alarcon was sitting at the kitchen table with an untouched espresso in front of him. He had his arms stretched out on the table, fists clenched, staring into space. He only came out of his trance when Falcon broke into the frame of his vision and offered his condolences.

'I know he was important to you,' said Falcon.

Alarcon nodded. He didn't look as if he'd slept much. He made light knocking noises with his fists on the tabletop.

'Did you speak to Arenas yesterday?' asked Falcon.